


Fervor

by Faint_Harlot



Category: Kaizoku Sentai Gokaiger
Genre: F/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faint_Harlot/pseuds/Faint_Harlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Touch me once, I know I’m lost / Come / Let’s dissolve this frost.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Because he's nearly forgotten the sound of laughter – and what creates it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fervor

A screech wrenches the air, sending birds scattering haphazardly from the trickling creek. The first mate’s nervous system sends his limbs into a panic, already struggling to turn back as his heart crashes into his ribcage. 

He knows he should be moving faster, because her skirts are sopping and sprawled across the branches and rocks. Water runs over them, clear and flowing with a rhythmic gaiety which is juxtaposed against her unbecoming pose. Cool mud has splattered across her small, strapless white dress and as she lifts herself off the creek’s bank, still in shock, Joe runs back to her.

“I I-tripped, I am so sorry!”

“Ahim,” is all he says, and she takes his proffered arm.

Then he snickers. He cannot tear his smoldering eyes away from hers. He can hear the almost indistinct, dangerous purr waxing and waning in her diaphragm as she asks, “What exactly is so funny about this?”

It is only then he realizes he has laughed, and she is completely un-amused. To avoid the piercing gaze and the color bleeding across her cheeks, he deftly sweeps an arm under her legs as his other one lifts her easily off the creek bed. Cold mud slaps on his jacket, but what he notices is the preserved, careful drop of brown on her cheek. Again, he snickers and cannot explain why.

“Joe-san.” Tone polite but laced with a warning – how indignant she is and how hysterical the first mate finds it. 

“I was just surprised that you slipped. Nothing more.”

“I believe you were snickering at me.”

“I wouldn’t do such a thing,” he says hurriedly. In spite of this, the corners of his mouth creep up as he delicately scoops the mud off her face with his finger. “Really.”  
“I am getting the impression that you find my plight amusing, Joe-san,” she continues. Dancing around the edges of her statement is the poignant threat of hurt feelings. Something for which he would not easily forgive himself. 

Panicking, he gently pushes her head against his broad shoulder and clears his throat again to hide the shaking laughter boiling in his gut. He does not know where this is coming from – but something about seeing her discomposed and dirty tickles his fancy. Makes him laugh. Makes him want to swing her in a circle and continue challenging the creek like children at play. 

“I will not have this. Please put me down,” she commands, voice hardening, crackling in the air. Trapping a bit of it. Crystallizing it.

He acquiesces for fear of his life. Just one tear shining in the corner of her eye will leave him walking the plank at Luka’s orders – or even Marvelous’, that damn softie. Joe wonders how he even managed to be in this position, given that he is always the one to which she runs. It is usually the first mate delivering punishment. 

Pivoting on her heel, her spine is straight as the pike of a railroad with vertebrae carefully arranged around it. As soon as her gaze finds his, his giggles fade away as he sees her hard expression.

“Do you find it amusing that I am discomposed?” she bristles. Joe swallows – _she’s reading my mind_. A burning flush rushes from the tips of his ears to places best unnamed, particularly in the ex-princess’s company. And when her lips press together so tightly, chin lifted with that ingrained air of royalty, and damn her eyes because they’re glittering and gorgeous . . . they look like they will put him six feet in the dirt. 

“Well I do not. I request that you take me back to the Galleon.” 

Without a second’s hesitation, he also pivots and heads toward the creek they just crossed. His captain’s voice echoes in his head: _Whipped_. Physically shaking his head free of his over-opinionated and irritatingly suggestive friend, he can feel eyes on the back of his neck-

There’s a loud sound as his steel-toed boot connects with a well-coiled root; he stumbles but manages to regain his bearings.

But on his next step, he loses his usual dazzling physical control and embraces the muddy creek bed.

A stray thought crosses his mind as Ahim’s graceful footsteps near him, but it fades almost instantly. There is no way she had anything to do with it – _no way could she have_. Feeling her gentle hand upon him, he brushes her off and gets to his feet. Somehow, that flush is still coursing, throbbing, small but alive with a subtle pulse. The tiny and minuscule hairs which coat every inch of him, every inch of every being, stand to attention and he does not know why. 

Until he half-pivots and she is there, still staring at him, through him and around him. His obnoxious splash has soaked her as well: Water clings, hovers and finally drips from her long dark locks, curled in the unnatural heat of the season. Drops dot her bared collarbones and collect on bouncing eyelashes, forming rivulets in the mud which has stained her dress. 

Ahim’s lips are slightly parted. Joe’s chest heaves in frustration and another vain attempt to clear the heat. Clear the air. Break the tension. 

Something in her kind smile tells him that her indignant words were feigned. When he opens his mouth to contest this whole confusing scenario, she splashes water toward him with the tip of her boot, barely suppressing a giggle.

“You really made yourself dirty, Joe-san.”

“Did I?” he snaps.

“You did.” Not looking away, she leans forward to cup water in her small hands. Stepping closer, eyes still boring deeply into his, she tosses it on him. “We cannot go back to the ship now, looking like this.” 

Now she glides across the creek to him, and grasps his shoulders to keep her balance. Standing on tip-toe, her lips are close to his neck -too close- and she whispers in a fluttering, sweet sigh:

“We’ll just have to wash here.”

And everything is too tight and constricting. His shirt is sopping wet and seems completely unnecessary and so is that dress; after all, it is waterlogged and heavy and must be such a burden. The air is densely packed and swirling around their bubble which consists of two. Two people soaked to the bone in the heat and filthy with mud, standing in the creek as the current laps against their shins. How many times they have come this close, neither know. How many times the atmosphere adopts gracious poise, tensed as a string, ready to snap and spiral out of control. With every heave of her chest her collarbones surface, delicate but so well-shaped, _since when are collarbones distracting_? 

A terrified giggle erupts, beginning in his ear and fading away as he takes her by the waist, swinging her high. He is hard-pressed to conceal his grin as he says, in the calmest tone he can muster,

“You first.”


End file.
